W, like the Will of John Watson
by pikku-Millie
Summary: What if it hadn't been Sherlock who faked his death. But how you trick Sherlock Holmes to believe that even though you are only an ordinary John Watson...and you really don't want to do that? Maybe future Johnlock. Set after the Great Game. Please read the warnings.
1. War declaration

**I don't own Sherlock (BBC or the original) or any characters in that series. I have wrote this text myself. Warnings are now about violence and cursing. I'm not sure yet if this will be a Johnlock (but I'm afraid that it will be. Tell me do you want that or not). If the rating goes up when this makes progress I will chance the rating.**

**I love my wonderful friend Khalko and her ****skillful friend (Sorry she doesn't have internet nick-name...yet). They have been both great beta-readers.**

* * *

The greatest mystery was the one he really didn't want to solve. It wasn't boring for once; it was actually really interesting, even thrilling. Even so, he didn't want to solve it. Sherlock sat down on his chair and lit a cigarette. One thing was really clear to him when he watched the lifeless and bloody body lying on the chair in front of him. This time John wasn't going to nag him about smoking.

Baker Street 221b was maybe one of the safest places in the world. Mycroft made sure of that, even though it usually drove Sherlock out of his mind. All the hidden cameras and listening devices—usually Sherlock ripped them out and broke them. Still, he always left a few of his own—not Mycroft's, for God's sake—because he didn't want to be in situations like this. He wanted to know what happened. Yesterday there had been a few cameras, but now there were none.

John didn't die in this apartment; it was obvious, almost boringly obvious. He had been dead for more than twelve hours.Even an idiot could see that because of the rigor mortis. Sherlock had been here, in their apartment,twelve hours ago, and the body had not been in that chair then. And there had been no cameras or tapes to record when or how somebody brought the body to John's chair. Where had Sherlock been then? How did the killer know that he wasn't home when he brought the body to Baker Street?

One of the most interesting things was that John hadn't actually been missing. Sherlock had been texting with him only a few hours ago. The answers had been exactly like John's, and it was anything but easy to make Sherlock believe lies. Also, Mycroft always knew where John was even though Sherlock didn't. There was always at least one camera pointing at John. It was their silent deal with his brother. If something happened to John, the Holmes brothers would be the first ones to know. Or that was how things should have been.

Sherlock did something he really didn't want to do. But he did it for John.  
"What a delightful surprise, my dear brother. It's not often that you call me." He really hated Mycroft's voice. But he had to call him. This was a situation where he needed the best help possible. Unfortunately, that was his brother.  
"John is dead." It was a hard thing to say. A sentence that Sherlock had never wanted to say.  
"No, he isn't. I can see him clearly, Sherlock." Mycroft always trusted his cameras and connections. What an idiot. Sherlock always trusted only himself and his deductions. This was an easy deduction.  
"So can I, and yes, he is, Mycroft." Sherlock hung up the phone. One cigarette was too little. He lit another and looked at his only friend's destroyed face. This time John wasn't going to nag him about smoking.

* * *

There were policemen in their apartment. Sherlock hated it. Why should some idiots come into their apartment when the crime scene was Sherlock bloody Holme's home? What did they think they would see that he couldn't? Also, this was the body of John Watson. Sherlock's John Watson. This was personal now. John would be annoyed if some random policemen were to solve his case. He always wanted to see Sherlock being amazing. This was his last chance to show John that he was worthy of the man's admiration. Actually, that was maybe the wrong thing to say when John was dead. He wasn't worthy of it.

The face was full of cuts. So full that he almost couldn't make sure that it was John. That wouldn't be a problem. The man still had his fingerprints, hair and teeth. It would be easy to identify him. Also, Sherlock had his eyes and deductions. This body... he could see a scar on John's left arm; John had gotten that three weeks ago when he had broken a cup. He saw... it really hurt to look. There were tiny marks all over his body and clothes that screamed about his life. Coffee stain and cookie crumbs on his jumper; before his death John had had lazy morning. John didn't have a clue...  
"Sherlock." Lestrade's voice was full of worry. That wasn't a miracle. Sherlock was a mess, more than usual. But this wasn't a time for that.  
"Not now, Lestrade. We have work to do." Actually, work started only after John's body was out of this apartment. He had a pretty good clue as to who had done this. His last doubt disappeared when they opened John's shirt. There was a burnt hole in the middle of John's chest. _I will burn the heart out of you._

"I never thought that he would take this so literally. Dramatic, even melodramatic, that is really his style. But this..." Then Sherlock closed his mouth. There were no buts. Actually, this was exactly Moriarty's style. It wasn't his heart, but John was his, so technically... Everything just screamed Moriarty. He just had to go out for a bit. He needed a place without John's body. He needed to think about his strategy. The war had just been declared.

When Sherlock was stepping down the stairs, his second-most-hated person was climbing up. One good thing about Moriarty was that he had brought the Holmes brothers closer to each other. That would actually maybe make that stubborn bastard happy. He clearly enjoyed being first on any of Sherlock's lists.  
"Sherlock, I'm..." He didn't want to hear anything that idiot had to say.  
"Shut up, Mycroft. Just shut up." Mycroft closed his mouth and watched his brother. He didn't look good. Even Sherlock himself knew that.  
"You can't start using drugs again." Ah, of course, he smelled like cigarette smoke. It was only an innocent thing. Mycroft didn't care about that like John did. But first it was smoking, and after that, drugs. The last time it had gone like that, and Mycroft hadn't been happy.  
"I have something else to do." No, drugs weren't even an option. He should find Moriarty and finish off that man. Also, Moriarty wasn't an idiot, so that was a much harder mission than it sounded.  
"And after everything, you are bored, Sherlock. What would you do then?" Mycroft's logic was always practical and true. He didn't have John anymore to keep the boredom away.  
"I will keep going." That wasn't true. Mycroft wouldn't notice the lie. Everybody expected him to be a heartless bastard, and now he tried to be one. The true answer would have been: _I really don't know._

* * *

Mycroft looked at the apartment. He had gotten used to seeing it as his brother's and John's home. The police were now leaving, the body was in the body bag and some people had started to carry it outside. It looked like everything they had to do in the apartment was now done. And still the game had only begun.

It would be interesting to see his brother work alone again. And now he had so much motivation. Alone, those two were a danger to themselves; together, they were a danger to themselves and all those around them. And still John and Sherlock were healthier and happier together than alone. Mycroft had always thought that if his brother were to ever find a partner, he or she would be a genius like Sherlock. Maybe even a madman. There had been options, like Irene Adler or Moriarty. How had his brother chosen a man like John? Or was it John who had chosen his brother? What a great mystery that they were together.

Walking into the apartment and thinking to himself wasn't the cleverest thing to do. He had work to do before Sherlock would notice him. He went to John's bedroom and had to stop thinking for a minute again. Where would a normal person put it? It should be someone who knew and even liked his brother. It should also be someone who killed a man after one day of knowing Sherlock. So, it wasn't a normal person. What a shame; it would have been easy to hide in the desk drawer. He saw a bookcase and an idea came to him. It was an idea which John would have appreciated , like a last mark of respect towards Sherlock's smartness. That book was almost in every home, but still, there were secrets only inside that one book. _A-Z London Street Atlas_... there it was. Mycroft calmly searched the letter W and slipped the paper from inside the book. Then he closed it and put it back like he hadn't done anything, and left the apartment.

_W, like the Will of John Watson._

* * *

**A/N: I really hope that you liked this (and all the mistakes that I didn't noticed didn't matter so much). If there are people who would want that I continue this it would be really great to hear. :)**


	2. Demanding

**Yeah...so I got in the second chapter before I had to chance the rating...so warnings about description of ****Violence**** and cursing. But hey, I blame Moriarty. You can't write with that guy without being violent.**

* * *

Sherlock watched the pathologist with an air of boredom. He had wanted—and he was sure John would have wanted—Molly to do the exam, but no. Mycroft was ashamed that somebody could have just walked in front of John, killed him and then taken the body wherever he wanted. And nobody had even noticed. Therefore, Sherlocks's brother was doing all he could, and that meant he would get the best pathologist of the best. And what was that genius thinking about? Well, nobody knew, because it seemed like the best meant the _slowest_. And the doctor had better be very careful now. He didn't have John here to say: "Behave, Sherlock." Sherlock wouldn't behave. Not if that would in any way make it easier to know what happened.

* * *

John had always known three things which were painfully obvious, even for a normal person like him. When somebody said them to him, he could shout to the whole world: "John Watson, ordinary but not an imbecile!"They were:

_1. Moriarty was smart but really dangerous. Nobody should play with him._

_2. Sherlock was a genius and completely out of__his mind. He would play with Moriarty._

_3. There was a really big risk that their game would get John and/or Sherlock killed. And John would do anything for it to only be John._

With such simple rules, John couldn't understand why he was so surprised. In the last few months, he had always thought that he would die for Sherlock. He had accepted that, so why did it now feel like such an absurd idea?

_Because now there is no escape. You will die. _And that was really weird. He had always thought that he would die in a place like Afghanistan or before Moriarty's eyes. Not in his beautiful but very messy living room. Even though it wasn't important, he felt a huge need to declare that the messiness was all Sherlock's doing. Declare to whom? It didn't matter. He was just buying time he didn't have. He grabbed the gun.

Everything started just two hours ago, when he had sent an angry text to Sherlock. It was only normal because, well, was there ever a time when he wasn't angry at that bastard? He asked only for small favors, like so: _please, could you tell me if you've hidden a mousetrap in the fridge? Or for God's sake, just once in a lifetime, could you buy some bloody milk if we haven't got any?_ He needed tea and he drank his tea with milk. And if somebody would notice that, it was Sherlock. So, was it too much to ask? He could be worse. He could be as demanding as Sherlock, but he wasn't. These were only small favors. An angry text message was only justified. And even when he pressed the send button, he was sure that Sherlock would ask something like

_Why? -SH _As if John wouldn't know that phone number. That bastard always had to include that SH, Satan's heir; that he was indeed.

What he hadn't expected to get was a text message with an anonymous number.

_What are you ready to accept, Dr. Watson? Do you even know that yourself? -Your only friend_

John had lived with Sherlock long enough to know that this text message didn't bode well. He didn't need to be a genius to guess that the text wasn't from Sherlock or Mike or any of his friends. How could that innocent little phone feel so evil now? It was as though the inside of the phone was something which didn't belong there. Oh, he should have known that it was only the beginning.

_Who are you? _As if somebody was going to answer him. It was like nagging Sherlock: pointless but necessary. Would that nagging change something? No. Would Sherlock even understand that something was wrong? Maybe. Would he care about that? Oh, let me laugh. That would be too simple. Boring, that was what Sherlock would say. Well, that mysterious stranger actually answered, but not how John would have wanted.

_Like you wouldn't know, John. Are you suicidal? You should be. Or then you just love sacrifices. -Your only friend_

And then the conversation stopped. But it only got worse. Picture after picture, all of them were of his friends and family. Only one was missing. He couldn't find even a single picture of Sherlock. And he knew exactly why. There was only one person who would sound so insane via text message besides Sherlock: Jim bloody Moriarty. And that man would do anything but kill Sherlock. They were arch-enemies and almost obsessedwith each other. Moriarty would try and fail, try and fail again and again. But usually he wanted to play with Sherlock, not with John. But the message was now really clear. All these people would be dead if he didn't do what that madman wanted.

_What are you ready to accept, Dr. Watson? _Not much. Sherlock was always complaining about his need to do the right thing. He was the nice one. He just couldn't be the reason for all those peoples' murders.

_Are you suicidal? You should be. Or otherwise you just love sacrifices. _He should kill himself if he didn't want them to die. How could he look in the mirror if he let them die? He would only see blood on his hands: a real murderer. On the other hand, could he do that? Maybe he had lived with Sherlock for too long, but could he take his own life because of others?

It was almost as though Moriarty could read his mind. A new text message. He was almost too scared to open it.

_If this is not enough to motivate you, I have still one thing. -JM_

And he did. It was selfish reasoning, one which Sherlock wouldn't understand. But it was enough for John.

* * *

Sherlock listened to the pathologist. The scars on John's face had been made only after he was dead. That was only one of the better things. Four ribs had been broken, and somebody had opened the chest with a scalpel. His heart had been removed from his chest and the wound had been closed. The stitches were beautifully made, the work of a professional. The pathologist didn't say that; it was simply obvious. But Sherlock almost couldn't see it because of the burnt area. After the surgery somebody had burned a circular mark onto the skin. The biggest revelation was when they saw John's back. There were big burnt letters there. _What they bore on their left arms. _Somebody had left him a message.

All but the scars on the face had been made before the death, but there was a really big chance that he had passed out immediately after the fractures. And after the removal of the heart, the body can survive without blood circulation for only a few minutes before the brains become too damaged. And of course there was massive internal bleeding in the chest. So the marking and the stitches had more than likely been made a few minutes after or at the time of death. It made him feel kind of sick that this case really started to feel interesting.

* * *

Jim Moriarty was ecstatic. Everything was going like he thought. John Watson, Sherlock's sweet little pet, was now gone. And Sherlock's face: oh dear, his expression when he found that body, it was hilarious. But he couldn't just keep savoring the feeling. He had work to do. And a little pet to train.

"We have to find you a more suitable name. Did you know that John means "God is gracious"? Well, for you He isn't anymore, is He?" And he laughed. Laughed and laughed. And John was listening. Except soon he wouldn't be John. He would be anyone Moriarty wanted. John hoped that he would get used to it soon. Now, it felt unbearable.

* * *

A/N: So I just wanted to say I'm sorry because of the rating chances. But hey, it actually feels good that I now can write freely what I have planned. And yeah, I feel myself a really sick person because I write this...but I hope that you like this. * Awkward laughing* Please leave me comment that I know am I doing good or could I do something better~3


	3. No such luck this time

**A/N: I can say that I'm not proud of this chapter. I know that it is even now after all the corrections hard to understand. But I hope that you don't have a clue what kind of chapter this was before Khalko's and her friend's hard work. I almost cried when I saw more red than black writings (red is corrected and black original...) But if you saw this before...well I just hope that you know how to delete your memories.**

* * *

Mycroft read the documents and analyzed them. Everything was exactly as he had assumed but not as he had hoped. Fingerprints, DNA—everything said that the dead man was Dr. John Watson. Even though his precious brother didn't even fake death a second thought, something was terribly wrong. How would John be useful dead? It would be much more logical to kidnap or blackmail him. Why would someone want him killed?

Also, Mycroft's video cameras were confusing. He observed John's posture and kept thinking. At the same time, the real John was being tortured, but the other John—the one in the video—didn't look like a fake at all. The body language and appearance was that of John. Maybe somebody had put old data into one of the cameras. But it was a lot more likely that the whole video was fake and somebody had corrupted all the cameras. And there were eight of them—a huge amount of work to do, if you considered how tight security was with those cameras. They were _Mycroft's_ cameras. And the video was so skillfully made that it didn't look like a fake at all. In all the footage, John had the same clothes and the weather outside was the same.

But if you looked close enough... oh, what an idiot he was. Sherlock would snort at him when he heard about this. John was wearing the same clothes, but the people around him weren't the same. All these videos were a hundred percent fake. The footage from the different cameras wasn't from the same day. You could see that in the details. Two different men were reading the newspaper, and the newspapers themselves were from different days. What did it take to wait for John to dress in the same clothes again? And in every camera, he actually looked really relaxed. Usually he would be a little bit stressed out. Well, it was only natural; after all, he lived with Sherlock. The weather was the same, exactly like day he died, and John looked exactly the same as well. However, it wasn't actually the same day, but rather many different days. But it must have taken weeks, maybe even months, to get such similar footage. And if that hadn't succeeded in a month or two, someone had kept going at it the next year, until they managed to get the same weather conditions.

"Why wouldn't they just show us footage from one day? Why so many different days? At least eight of them." Mycroft was speaking to himself, but his lovely assistant was as smart as ever.

"Our system collects all the footage and also connects the different cameras together and makes one movie out of those videos if needed. If the video is exactly the same for two different days, the film is definitely fake, and the system notices it. If they give our system footage from different days, it doesn't notice anything odd because the videos are not identical. It assumes that we notice the differences, because usually it is really obvious." Anthea's words were rational and almost bored. Mycroft sometimes forgot how wonderful his assistant was.

"But these are all our old videos, aren't they?" He wanted Anthea to say no. Because if these were videos from Mycroft's cameras, it meant that somebody had gained access to his computers. And if he had access to his computers, the killer was either one hell of a hacker or his worker. Either option was a really bad one.

"Yes, they are. Should I call Sherlock, Mr. Holmes?" Mycroft sighed at Anthea's words.

"I can do that myself. I just hoped that, even for once in my lifetime, I would have good news for him." Mycroft was a little surprised at the laugh from the woman.

"No such luck this time, Mr. Holmes."

* * *

When Lestrade had seen John, he had thrown up. He had looked at his dear friend's destroyed and humiliated body and felt really sick. Were there people who could just enjoy doing something like that? How many bloody murders did he have to see before it stopped surprising him? How many people did that same man have to kill before he became beyond terrifying? Well, he had counted twenty before he decided that now he was more furious than terrified. He grabbed the phone.

* * *

"So, I will explain the rules." Moriarty's voice sounded a little bit like a snake's hissing, John thought. In Afghanistan, when there had only been a little food, they had made snake soup. It had been bitter. Maybe they just didn't know how to cook snakes. It was understandable.

"We made a deal. If you do what I want, I won't do what you don't want me to do. But please, my dear Anthony, don't feel like I'm a bad person. If you want to break our deal, go ahead. I won't stop you." Of course that monster wouldn't stop him. He would gladly see him going to Sherlock... and then watch John when his worst nightmares became real. That would make the game more interesting. And for God's sake, he really hated the name Anthony. Why had Moriarty selected that name? It didn't even suit him.

"And if all of this is just too difficult for you, I remind you, there is always an easy option." Moriarty gave him a gun, a loaded gun. John's own gun. Moriarty was actually right. Everything was like before Sherlock. He felt like a prisoner, and this gun was his best friend. If there wasn't hope that Sherlock would deduce everything, it would be matter of hours before he would use that gun. But at the same time, Sherlock couldn't deduce this too quickly. It would make everybody suffer.

"Thank you, Jim." Bitter, it was always bitter to work with snakes.

"You're welcome, Anthony." Bloody Anthony.

* * *

He had all the pictures of John's body, and something was slightly wrong. He just didn't see what... well, except that those were pictures of _dead _John. After couple of hours just looking at the pictures, he saw both many things and nothing. How could such a messy murder still be so clean? No killer's fingerprints, no clear message except _What they bore on their left arms. _What was that supposed to mean? Usually he could deduce so much, and but now... almost nothing. Was it because of Moriarty and his skills, or had Sherlock just lost his touch? How did Sherlock not understand? It was usual that Sherlock didn't understand John, but he and Moriarty were like two different sides of a coin. He should understand that crazy bastard.

Someone had texted him from John's phone after his friend's death. Was the phone still in Moriarty's hands, or had it been destroyed? Actually, it didn't matter. He wanted to send a text to John's number. He took out his phone and was amazed at how popular he was. One missed call from Mycroft and another from Lestrade. So many calls. And he had been too distracted to even notice the ringing. Actually, he could confirm with Mycroft if John's phone was already gone. If he really was going to call his brother back, he could make it a useful call. After one ring Mycroft answered, and he didn't even let Sherlock speak.

"I have bad news, Sherlock, but not as bad as Lestrade's. Either I have a spy in my office, or they have one really good hacker. They have had access to all my computers and files for an unknown time. Everywhere I have had access to. Now go to Scotland Yard, Sherlock. John was only a small part of this." Mycroft ended the call. Usually Sherlock would have been frustrated at not getting the answers he wanted and how bossy his good-for-nothing brother was, but he understood the panic in this situation. Mycroft was practically the same thing as Britain. He had access to every place. There wasn't a place where Mycroft couldn't just walk as if he owned it. No files were secret from him. If some crazy genius had that possibility, even for a few hours, he could do some scary things. And something made him believe that it had been a question of more than a few hours. But how could Lestrade have worse news than this?

* * *

Lestrade took a picture and stuck it to the wall beside many others . Then he went to the computer and stared at the list. It would update after 30 seconds. He waited and watched the screen. Soon, three new cases appeared. He opened them and sighed. He printed out the pictures and stuck them on the wall.

"How many?" Sherlock always walked so silently. The man had scared him. Lestrade turned to look at the detective. He was gazing at all the pictures on the walls. All of them were of human bodies. Some of the victims had been strangled and some had been shot, but there was no possibility of suicide. The one thing they all had in common was multiple stabs in the face and burned text on the back: _What __they__ bore on their left arms._

"37 of them now. All found today, within the last five hours, in different parts of Britain, all after John. When this started happening, I made it a larger investigation. In the last seven months, it's been murders like this in different parts of the world. All of them... about 120 in total. And more to come." Lestrade was now furious but tired. He wanted to find John's killer. But this was big, so big that he didn't know if he was good enough for this. This would be a global investigation. At the same time around the world, there were policemen just like him looking for the same man and his accomplices. It wasn't possible that only one person could have done all of this in such a short time. But Moriarty... they were looking for him all around the world. Asia, America, Europe,—now it wasn't only Sherlock, Mycroft and Scotland Yard looking for John's killer. It was the whole fucking world.

* * *

John was terrified when he understood. He had heard his rules, but he had thought that he was the only one. When he read the next day's newspaper, he understood. Murder after murder, Moriarty's plan was perfect. There was no escape, no hope. He had counted on the fact that, after some time, Sherlock would save him. He would go back to London and write about this adventure on his blog. Everything would be just the same. Now he understood that it was just an impossible dream. It didn't matter how many people were looking for Moriarty. He would never see London again.

* * *

**A/N: Argh, this chapter made me crazy. I'm now a really motivated to write this and when I get enthusiastic about something I start to be a really difficult to understand. By the way, I don't want to ever again write about Mycroft's cameras...But I hope that you understood and even liked. Please make me happy and review. **


	4. Fake-John

**A/N: I would want to thank Raychaell Dionzeros so much. She is the one who has inspired me to keep going. Also she gave me an idea to get an beta-reader and now all these chapters have been victims of two lovely grammar nazis, Khalko and her friend. Really big thanks for them and I hope that this is now easier to read.**

* * *

Mycroft started to get worried about his brother again. First he had almost been happy about how John had died. It was a harmful loss, but at least Moriarty made murder a huge theater. His brother wasn't bored, but now it had kept going for two weeks. The murders had stopped seven days ago, and after that they hadn't heard even a single word about Moriarty. Silence didn't suit that man. The final number was 68 dead people in Britain and 120 murders all around the world. It was unfortunate, but Moriarty had now made such big plans that everybody would remember his name for a long time. Even Mycroft couldn't change that.

When he knocked on the door, he truly thought that somebody would come and open it. Nobody came. Well, it was nothing new that Sherlock didn't appreciate his visits as much as he hoped, but even Baker Street wasn't out-of-bounds to him. It had been long before John moved in when he had had spare keys made for himself. Actually, he was surprised at how long it had taken before he had needed them. He understood as he stepped inside that he should have come sooner. All the walls and the floor were full of pictures and writings. You could get a lot of pictures from 160 murders. But the notes were the worst.

_What they bore on their left arms. Nothing!_

_I can't see anything! Stupid._

_Sorry John. I'm not brilliant anymore._

And if those notes were discouraging, it was almost frightening to see his brother. He hadn't shaved for at least for a week and he looked like the walking dead, with his tired eyes and sunken cheeks. He hadn't slept in a long time and was dehydrated. And the worst thing was that he didn't even notice that Mycroft was in the room. This was not his brother. Or maybe he was. This man was Sherlock mourning John. Maybe he wasn't using drugs, but this was not much better.

"Sherlock, sit down." His brother turned to look at him. He wasn't even annoyed, which was highly unusual. If he had thought that Sherlock's lack of observation was a really bad thing, this was much worse. Sherlock really sat down. Why did he do anything Mycroft said?

"Talk to me, Sherlock." Mycroft himself also sat down on the sofa next to Sherlock. This was so strange. He wasn't used to something like being a normal big brother. But this was exactly what Sherlock needed now. He needed a fake John. Someone who would lecture and care.

"I know that it was Moriarty. I know that he and his accomplices killed all those people. I know that at least two people killed John, and one was a doctor because of the stitches, Mycroft, the stitches. And that's it. I don't know anything. I'm a disappointment! They killed John and I can't even get my revenge. Every time I see something a little bit meaningful I can almost hear him say: _Brilliant, Sherlock_. And I have to stop looking because it hurts. John will never say that to me again. I'm not brilliant, I let Moriarty kill him." Sherlock didn't make sense. But this was the first time he let something out. John had mattered so much to his brother.

"You are not alone, Sherlock. We will find Moriarty. But now you have to think what John would have wanted. When was the last time you've drunk water, eaten or slept?" Mycroft studied his brother's face as he thought. Yes, he had hit below the belt when he had brought up what John would have wanted. But he was right, and he saw that realization on Sherlock's face.

"Too long ago." Still, Sherlock didn't do anything. He was now completely helpless and needed someone to guide him. Later he would be ashamed about how he had behaved, but that wasn't a problem now.

"Now go to the kitchen and get a drink. Then go to bed and sleep. When you wake up, there will be warm food waiting for you. You will eat everything, and after that we will go to John's room and pack his belongings." Sherlock nodded at everything else, but when he heard the bit about going to John's room, the man turned pale, paler than he already was.

"You can't just..." Sherlock needed someone to be strong now, so Mycroft cut him off.

"You can't solve this case if you keep mourning John. But you just can't stop doing that, can you, Sherlock?" Mycroft smiled a little sadly at Sherlock when he shook his head.

"Good that you understand. So rest now, and tomorrow we'll begin saying goodbye to our dear friend. Let's honor his memory." Sherlock stood up and went into the kitchen. After some time, Mycroft heard his brother getting into the bedroom, and after that came a complete silence. He sighed.

"You really don't have a clue how important you were, ."

* * *

John didn't know what he had expected, but this wasn't it. Moriarty had really let him free. He had given him a cellphone, a new passport and a good amount of money. The taxi driver didn't ask him for an address despite his protests. He just drove on, and when the taxi stopped in front of a really cute house, he didn't even ask for money.

"Welcome to your home, Anthony Morstan. Here are your keys, and if you want a job, you only have to call. The number is saved in your phone." So even the taxi driver was Moriarty's man. He didn't know if Moriarty had more men than Mycroft. It would make a good bet.

"Thank you." He took the keys and walked into his new apartment. The very first thought when he opened the door and walked in was that he wasn't alone. He grabbed the gun, ready to shoot anyone who was in the house. This was familiar to John. It made him feel a little bit more at home.

When he went into the living room, the biggest surprise awaited him there. A blond woman with an anxious smile on her face was looking at him.

"I'm your wife, Cleo Morstan. Nice to meet you." She offered her trembling hand to John and looked like she would start crying at any minute. John put the gun down and studied the woman. She could be one of Moriarty's puppets, or she could be just like he was, a prisoner. He gave his hand to the woman.

"Anthony Morstan. It would have been nicer to meet you in other situations." It seemed like they were really stressed, and that lame joke was something which broke the tense atmosphere. They both started to laugh hysterically.

"Yes, yes, it would have been."

* * *

**A/N: Yeah, I know that Sherlock is a really OOC but give him a time. With Sherlock there is always a reason.**


	5. Different kind of lunatics

**Thanks so much for Khalko who doesn't even laugh all those mistakes I made. She just simply corrected this 3**

* * *

Actually, John really liked Cleo. They had ordered Chinese food, found a bottle of wine in the kitchen and made a picnic in the living room, watched some stupid american comedy show and commented it with really cruel criticism. If this would have been a date John would have thought that this was the woman he wanted to marry someday. She was beautiful, smart and she understood John's sense of humor. But this wasn't a date. Inside of every sentence and laugh was something strained. They didn't know each others at all, but after this day Cleo was his wife. And this house was theirs, this situation was their live. They didn't have any option to choose about it.

* * *

John's funeral was yesterday and Sherlock had missed it. He had been trying to solve the case so hard that he had forgotten about John's funeral. Sherlock wouldn't hear the end of it. It wasn't like he hadn't been invited; far from it. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and even Harry had visited and called him. But he had been too busy to open the door or answer the phone. But maybe this was exactly like his and John's relationship had always been. They just needed each others. Their conversations and jokes, even the fights were the best when it was just them two together, everyone else excluded. Maybe the funeral was the same. He looked at his best friend's grave and after some time took his phone. It wasn't like he had ever spoken directly with John. He preferred to text.

_You survived longer in the war than with me, John. I'm disappointed. -SH_

After the writing he put his cellphone away and turned his back to the grave. Now, if Lestrade or anyone asked, he had said good-bye to John. He hoped they would leave him alone for now.

* * *

Cleo had been such an ordinary woman. She had married her best friend after high school and been in love. She had studied to be a teacher and they were really happy...for a while. They had been married more than 15 years- oh dear how this kind of thinking made her feel old- and they had had both difficulties and happy moments. They had tried to have a child almost 10 years without success. At times it had made their marriage feel like a living hell and all she wanted was to get out of it. Every day she had went to school and taught children that weren't her own. And it hurt. But finally, four years, six months and three days ago, a little princess Lily had been born. It was a miracle. Why her 20-year old body couldn't get pregnant but it wasn't a problem for a body of 34 years? And she loved her deeply. Still, she couldn't understand why God hated her so much. After so much trouble, why He gave her so little time of happiness?

It had been Saturday, when he entered into her life. His husband had been working. Business didn't rest, he always said. Lily had been playing with her legos. Her mother had gotten so used to almost having an heart attack when that little monster put small things in her mouth and nose. Now she was old enough not to do that, but still, she was keeping an eye on her and playing with her. Old habits die hard. That was when mom heard her phone ringing. Lily was heartbroken, she knew that mom would answer and talk too long. She didn't want to loose her playmate. Mother kissed her daughter as an apology and answered the phone. Even now she hoped that she hadn't. Even a few more minutes with her child, that was a wish she could never accomplish. That phone call chanced her life.

"_Good afternoon, Mary. You have such a lovely little daughter. Lily, isn't she?_" Mary wanted to end the call. She didn't know who this man was or how he knew her and Lily. She had just wanted to end the call and go back to play with her child and forget this. But she couldn't.

"_What do you want? And who are you?" _She tried to use a normal voice. Lily couldn't notice how nervous she was.

"_I'm your only friend, Mary. And I would like to ask, how much you value your daughter's life?" _She couldn't breath. She grabbed Lily in her arms and wanted to find a place where they could hide. There was none.

"_Go away, go away. More than anything. You can't touch her." _She couldn't understand what she was saying. Too much panic. And the man in the phone was laughing.

"_More than anything? More than your own life?" _That was an easy question.

"_Of course."_

And now Mary was watching Anthony. He wasn't her husband like that other man had been, but he was a nice man. Of course there was also the option that this man was loyal only to that psychopath but something made it hard to believe. Mary also knew that it was possible that Anthony too had a family and a life which he had given up. Something that was so special and meaningful that he was ready to give his life for. And that wasn't right, not for him, nor for her. But if this was how Mary's child could live a long happy life, she would do it. And when she drank a little bit more wine and laughed at the same joke as Anthony she started to feel that maybe some day she could forget her life as Mary and start a new life as Cleo. Still, today wasn't the day.

* * *

John's cellphone had almost twenty saved numbers. Cleo and Moriarty of course. Then there were numbers like Mom. John was sure that if he called that number, there would be a nice woman who would tell everyone that John was her sweet little Antie or some other disgusting nickname. And then there was one tempting number, _Sherlock._

John knew that he couldn't call Sherlock as John. That would be an awkward call.  
_"Hi Sherlock. Yeah, yeah, dying, not really my style. Well I have to admit that Moriarty is a little bit more drama queen than you are." _Oh yes, that would be a phone call one of a kind. Still, it was a tempting idea. Just call and hear Sherlock's voice and then end the call. That sounded exactly like a plan made by a school girl.

Then there was also Mycroft's number. Some days his number was even more tempting than Sherlock's, because there was a slim opportunity of getting away. It was possible that that one little phone call would make all his problems disappear...or make them remarkably bigger.

_"Hi Mycroft, yes I'm not dead. Ah, you already knew. Somehow I'm not surprised. Well, could you be such a great man and kill or imprison a couple of Moriarty's men? I'd really want to get back. No, I don't know who they are...or where they are...and no, I don't know how many...Actually just end the call and forget everything. This is not working." _And because his pessimistic thought wasn't actually a good plan, he didn't call Mycroft

* * *

After two weeks John noticed how he hated free time. Morning when as soon as he woke up, he was be able to tell what would happen. He would drink coffee and watch TV. He would say aloud some mistakes which were obvious even for him. Of course he didn't notice all of them, but he was still better than an average Joe. John would talk with Cleo and try to calculate if she was worthy of his trust. And soon after that it would be time to go to nights were peaceful; no violin music or gun shooting in middle of the night. And tomorrow would be exactly like today. Finally John understood what Sherlock meant by being bored.

3 am. and he couldn't sleep. The gun in his hand felt heavy. He raised it and shot. John heard Cleo's scream and it was only a matter of seconds when she was in the living room.

"What the hell are you doing, Anthony." Cleo's hair was messed up and her eyes were full of panic; she looked beautiful. Adrenaline felt good in John's veins. This was how he should feel all the time. Before this, there was not a time when he understood Sherlock as perfectly as now.  
"Bored." John felt a weird nostalgia. But he wasn't used to play Sherlock's role.  
"So you shoot the wall in the middle of night?" Cleo sounded like she was talking to a lunatic; maybe she was.  
"Yes. Maybe I should get a job." John walked away from the wall and began to look at his cellphone. Cleo was only staring at the wall, shocked.

"Maybe you should."

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for such a long waiting. I have started my practice (I will be 3 months in Canada!...well 1 is already gone so I will be two months in Canada!) so there has been so much to do and see. So read this: "Sorry being lazy. I hope that this doesn't happen again but it might. Sorry" **


End file.
